


Do You Remember (Cuz I Remember)

by novel_concept26



Category: Glee
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:38:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/novel_concept26/pseuds/novel_concept26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana Lopez is the scariest girl in the fourth grade. Which, honestly, is sort of why Finn likes her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do You Remember (Cuz I Remember)

Title: Do You Remember (Cuz I Remember)  
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Finn Hudson mini-bromance  
Rating: G  
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.  
Spoilers: None in particular.  
Summary: Santana Lopez is the scariest girl in the fourth grade. Which, honestly, is sort of why Finn likes her.  
A/N: Title from Black Lab's "Remember." (Also: I SAID BROMANCE AND I MEANT IT, BREATHE, EVERYBODY.)

Santana Lopez is the scariest girl in the fourth grade. Which, honestly, is sort of why Finn likes her. Which doesn’t make sense, really, because normally he doesn’t like scary things at all; his cousin tried to get him to watch that Chucky movie once, and he spent the next week secretly sleeping under his mom’s bed. He’s still holding fast to that staying-away-from-dolls plan.

There really isn’t much about liking Santana that makes sense to him. She isn’t _that_ pretty—not like Quinn Fabray—not that he cares, because she’s a _girl_ , and who cares if girls have really white smiles and really green eyes on some days? She isn’t _that_ interesting, unlike Tina Cohen-Chang, who—he’s pretty sure—is adopted, or Rachel Berry, who has _two_ dads (which makes him really jealous sometimes, because how unfair is it that some dumb girl should get _two_ dads when he doesn’t even have the one?). She isn’t even _that_ good at sharing, unlike Brittany-whatever-her-name-is, who always breaks her cookies in…well, the pieces are too crumbly to really be ‘half’, but he knows it’s supposed to be the thought that counts.

Truthfully, Santana isn’t _that_ anything—

Except scary. She is really, really scary.

The thing is, she’s the cool kind of scary. She’s barely like a girl at all, with her hand-me-down sweatshirts and grass-stained jeans. She doesn’t cry like most girls, or sit in the corner at recess playing four-square (the most boring game in the world) or _reading_ (which makes even less sense than a game with no tackling, because it’s not like they don’t spend all day reading in the first place). She plays baseball with the guys, and soccer, and she always scores for her team—which is usually his team, too. _And_ she owns a pet turtle.

A _turtle_.

He bets it turns into a ninja at night.

His mom won’t even let him have fish.

It’s not fair.

The point is, she’s cool. Girls aren’t usually, but she doesn’t remind of a girls so much as…Puck with more hair. And Puck is just about the coolest person he knows, after his mom.

Which is not the sort of thing he shares with _anyone_ , because loving your mom more than food and TV and video games isn’t really cool either.  
 _  
The point is_ , Santana is awesome. And terrifying. And right now, he’s pretty sure she’s going to try to punch him in the nose.

Which…might not be the most awesome thing ever.

“Hey!” he protests as her little fists rise to protect her face, feet bouncing restlessly against the sidewalk like a miniature, grungy boxer. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Did too,” she retorts, glowering. “Give it back.”

“Give _what_ back?” Anxious, his eyes flick from her face to her fists and back again. He’s really having trouble remembering why he could ever like a girl who wants to hit him.

Her hands drop an inch, her mouth stretching into a sneer. “You’re kind of an idiot sometimes, Hudson.”

Another thing that makes her cool, although he doesn’t understand it: Santana calls pretty much everyone by their last name (except for her best friend, Brittany, probably because no one _knows_ her last name in the first place).

It occurs to him that she’s just called him—“Hey! I am not!”

“Then why did you take my plane?” she demands, still bouncing to and fro on her toes. He looks down at the black-and-red model airplane clutched in his left hand.

“This? It was on the ground, I just picked it up. How was I s’pposed to know it was yours?” he asks, confused. “I didn’t even know girls liked planes.”

Rolling her eyes, she huffs out a breath and impatiently turns his hand over. There, on the underside of one gleaming wing, is a hastily Sharpie’d inscription: ‘S. Lopez.’

“Oh,” he says dumbly. “Guess that _is_ you.”

“Guess so,” she snarks, snatching the plane back and cradling it against her chest. “My papa brought it for me the last time he went to one of his conventions. He's the greatest dad in the world, you know. He knows I hate it when he goes away, so he always brings me a present.”

Something in his chest, something normally light and airy, suddenly turns rock-hard and plummets into his gut. It's weird; he should be used to this by now (geez, it isn't like kids aren't _always_ yapping about how awesome their dads are), and normally he handles it fine. But some days...

“Oh,” is all he can say again. “That was…nice of him.”

She grins, eyes fixed on the plane. “Yep. He brings stuff for my brothers too, but I know I’m his favorite, ‘cuz I’m the young—what are you doing?”

He drags the cuff of his sleeve brutally across his eyes, feeling small and stupid as he bites back a sniffle. “Nothin’.”

Dark eyes squint suspiciously as she steps closer. “Looks like you’re gonna cry. I didn’t know boys cried.”

“We don’t,” Finn responds viciously, scuffing the toe of his Spider-man sneaker against the dirty crack between the sidewalk blocks. “And I’m not. Shut up.”

“I’m not gonna hit you, if that’s what you’re whining about,” Santana tells him generously, adding almost as an afterthought, “you big wuss baby.”

“I’m not a wuss baby!” he snaps, willing the rock in his stomach to melt away. “And I don’t care if you try to hit me. You’re not as strong as me.”

“Wanna bet?” she challenges, eyes glittering, but her fists remain unclenched. More than anything, she looks curious as she rises up on her toes and peers into his red face. “Seriously, Hudson, what’s your problem?”

Swallowing hard, he weighs his options. He could run right now, but part of what makes Santana so scary is her speed. He could tell her he’s got allergies or something, but the last person who lied to her—Artie Abrams, about being from the moon—got held down while she shoved handfuls of sand down his jeans. Which pretty much only leaves the truth—but how is she supposed to understand how he feels when she’s got a dad who brings home airplanes with her name on them? It’s not as bad as Rachel Berry and her _two_ dads, but it still kind of sucks in comparison to what he’s got.

“I just…” He hesitates, frowning, then decides to just go for it. Who cares what some girl thinks, anyway? “I miss my dad.”

Santana tilts her head to the side, clearly interested. “He go on a trip or somethin’? Dads do that a lot, I guess. S’pecially when they go to conventions. It’s stupid, but they always come back.”

“Not mine,” he tells her hoarsely, embarrassed by the tears threatening to cut off his voice completely. “Mine went to fight. In the Army. He died.”

“Oh.” It’s the first time he has ever seen Santana Lopez without something to say. She chews vigorously on her lip, looking up at the sky instead of into his eyes. “That, uh. That sucks.”

“It was a long time ago,” he rushes to explain, so as not to embarrass them both. “I was real little.”

“Still sucks,” she says, shrugging uncomfortably. “Dads are the coolest. It’s not fair that you don’t have one.”

They stand awkwardly for a moment, silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn sees her lift the hand with the airplane to the level of her face, expression more thoughtful than he’s used to.

“Puckerman doesn’t have one either, y’know,” she observes. “And Hummel, he doesn’t have a mom.”

“Neither does Rachel,” Finn realizes. Santana’s mouth thins out, her eyes rolling.

“She doesn’t count. She lives inside a rainbow. That’s better than having a mom who’s always nagging and tryin’ to shove you into a dress and make you smile at creepy old people at church.”

He’s never experienced any of that, having the coolest mom in the world (plus, he’s pretty sure even the _uncoolest_ mom wouldn’t try to shove him into a dress), but arguing with Santana doesn’t seem productive. The best he can hope for is that nodding and agreeing will keep her from spreading news of his tears all over the playground.

He doesn’t expect her to hug him or anything, which is really for the best, since he still hasn’t decided whether to believe in cooties or not. Actually, he doesn’t expect her to do anything but stand there until the bell rings and rescues them both from this sincerely bizarre standstill. When she thrusts her hand up into his face without warning, therefore, he doesn’t think his reaction—leaping backwards several inches and cringing—is at all weird.

She obviously disagrees, judging from the scowl painted on her face. “I’m not going to hit you, numbnuts,” she grumbles, shaking the hand in his face. “Here.”

“Why?” he asks, because, although his mom has always taught him to be polite, he finds it a little hard to trust the scariest girl in the fourth grade as she dangles the coolest toy airplane ever in front of his nose. Santana may be cool, but she also has a mean streak that goes much deeper than most of their peers.

Actually, the more he thinks about it, the more she reminds him of that Lucy chick from the Peanuts strips. The likelihood that she will yank the plane away the second he reaches for it (and then possibly deck him for added giggles) is not entirely small.

“For Pete’s sake, Hudson,” Santana gripes, grabbing for his hand again and forcing the plane into it. “Take the stupid thing. And don’t say I never gave you nothin’.”

“But…why?” he can’t help saying again, staring dumbly down at the metal and plastic. She rolls her eyes, hands flashing into the air above her head.

“Seriously, how you made it past kindergarten, I’ll never know. Just. Every kid deserves a present from a dad, okay? Now you’ve got one. Sort of.”

It’s not the same, and they both know it, but his chest warms comfortably all the same. He gives her a nervous smile, hefting the plane cautiously.

“You sure your dad won’t be sad? I mean, it’s yours and stuff. Got your name on it and everything. Maybe—“

“Maybe you should quit lookin’ gift horses in the mouth, butthead,” she growls, shaking her head. He can’t see what horses have to do with anything, but decides not to ask. Her face is turning a dangerous shade of pink. “Anyway, he brings me stuff all the time. Like I said, he’s gone a lot. Don’t worry about it.”

His grin broadens until his cheeks are a little sore. “Awesome. Thanks, Santana. I mean it. You’re not so scary—“

“Don’t say _that_!” she protests, jumping to clamp a hand over his mouth. “Hudson, don’t you know anything?”

Still grinning against her palm, he shrugs and squeezes the airplane tighter. She sighs.

“Whatever. It’s no big deal, okay? Just didn’t want you snotting all over me or whatever. And _don’t_ tell Puckerman. I don’t wanna have to give him something to shut him up too, y’know?”

His head bobs in assent, eyes bright with excitement. Shaking her head again, Santana releases him and steps back just as the bell rings.

“Catch you later, Hudson,” she tells him carelessly, sprinting for the door before he can say anything in return. He watches her go, one hand in his pocket, beaming. Santana Lopez really is the coolest, even if she could knock his block off if she got mad enough.

He strokes the pad of his thumb across the plane’s propeller, thinking that maybe girls don’t totally suck after all.

***

Seven years later, Santana Lopez is still the scariest girl in school. Other things have changed: instead of sweatshirts, she wears short skirts, and instead of stepping up to bat, she cheers on the sidelines. She spends more time working the social angles than playing in the dirt.

He’s still pretty sure she could knock his block off.

They’re not friends, exactly; Santana doesn’t have too many of those in the traditional sense, and besides, Finn finds it hard to get along with girls who routinely stomp on the hearts of anyone who gets too near. Actually, he finds it hard to get along with girls in general, as he’s pretty sure most of them (or, at least the ones in Glee) are totally insane.

Still, sometimes he’ll catch her eye during rehearsal or a really energetic number. Those are the only times she really smiles—apart from when she’s looking at Brittany, anyway, who is still her best friend…or something, he’s not really sure; he can’t actually think about that too long without his head hurting and his pants growing uncomfortably tight—and for brief seconds, he sees that little girl with the grass stains. The one who pushed a toy airplane into his palm and raced away before he could do more than grin in return.

Maybe it’s stupid, but sometimes—when he’s had a bad day—he likes to come home, flop down on his bed, and pull that plane off his nightstand. Maybe it’s pathetic, but when he runs his thumb along the Sharpie’d wing, or flicks the propeller—for just a _second_ , it feels like things are simple. Like he’s just that boy who misses his father, who has a terrifying girl around to rescue him from a loneliness he never knew he could fight in the first place.

She’s not his friend, exactly, and she has never stopped being the scariest person he knows, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t still think Santana Lopez is the coolest girl ever.


End file.
